


Mistakes AU - asks, drabbles, ficlets

by MintJam



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: These drabbles were written in response to Tumblr asks. They all fit broadly speaking within the AU of my Mistakes multi-chapter fic, (in which Tommy is in a highly disfunctional/abusive relationship with Chester Campbell and Alfie is their professional Dom).That's probably all you need to know to make sense of these, although feel free to read Mistakes itself!
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58





	1. With Alfie's persuasion, would Tommy ever wear make-up?

Oh hmmm ... this may not be the answer you were looking for but ... I can’t quite see it.

I mean, Alfie absolutely gets off on certain elements of what some might call feminisation. Shaving Tommy below the waist? Check. Having him wear silk knickers? Check. They’re Alfie’s whims. There’s a thrill when Tommy submits to these requests precisely because they are hidden. Beneath his pristine clothes. And Alfie relishes the power that comes from being the only one who knows Tommy’s arse is as smooth as a newborn baby’s. That knowledge is _his_ knowledge to own. To savour. And to lord over Tommy should he choose.

But ... make-up? Well, it’s not that Alfie can’t see the appeal. He has absolutely nothing against lady-boys or full drag or a good old-fashioned Molly. But the thing with Tommy is that he's pretty already. Fucking pretty. And yet also kind of sharp looking. It's a combination that makes Alfie feel things he’ll deny to his dying breath. He ain’t sure how applying some ground-up insects and goose-grease could possibly enhance Tommy’s god-given gifts; no doubt there’s some pomade could slough the rough skin off his permanently chapped lips ... some powder could hide the bruised purple beneath his wondrous eyes. But would those eyes be half so wondrous without the juxtaposition? Tommy’s imperfections are no more than the grit in the oyster, the tea-leaves in the tea; the tannins at the bottom of a bottle of Syrah (if memory serves — it's been a long while).

So make-up’s not a risk Alfie’s willing to take. Not when women would kill for lashes half the length of Tommy’s, for a pout half so full. If there’s a cunt in this world could live up to the sweet softness of Tommy’s over-stretched, well-used hole then Alfie wouldn’t pay to see it. Let alone lick it ... suck it ... cleanse it of his own release. He’ll take Tommy as is. Every scar and scuff and joyless stare. Occasionally in black-lace stockings.


	2. What does Alfie like to watch?

Well, it all depends on when and what mood he’s in, don’t it? 

Given the nature of Alfie’s work, he don’t often have time for watching things during the week. His evenings, more often than not, are spent working (either in the kitchens or the playroom). By the time he gets home it’s usually well past midnight and if he flicks the telly on then it’ll be to watch something he don’t have to think about. Like snooker. He finds snooker extremely relaxing. Almost akin to meditation, watching two ugly blokes (and they are always ugly) with sticks jab coloured balls around a table. There’s something ridiculously infantile and yet impressively skilful about it. And there’s no fuckin’ screaming crowds involved — unlike most televised sport.

If it’s a Saturday morning he’ll flick on the TV to one of them dire cookery-magazine shows where they throw some shit food together far too quickly without ever washing their hands. Mainly it allows him to rant at the screen and vent whatever pent up frustrations he has left over from the night before. (And frustration levels have been running pretty fuckin’ high ever since he started seeing Tommy and that wanker on a Friday night). When he’s wound himself up good and proper cursing at the screen he usually switches off and takes himself for a run.

If it’s Sunday night, he has been known to get rather into a historical drama. Something produced by the BBC and purportedly literary — usually featuring a load of toffs with ridiculous hair and silly accents. Very often he’ll ring his mum after, so they can bond over how stupid the heroine was to lust after such an undeserving cunt. 

(And then he’ll go to bed and try very hard not to stew over the existence of another undeserving cunt).


	3. What frustrates Alfie the most?

What frustrates Alfie the most?  
The easier question might be what don’t frustrate Alfie. What don’t frustrate Alfie is as follows:

1\. Dogs

2\. A good bed.

3\. Comfortable trousers.

What frustrates Alfie?

Everything else. Okay, okay, the question was what frustrates him most. So if you want to be pedantic it’s people. Pedantic people are a good starting point. Good people are another — and bad people, of course. And lazy people, hyperactive people, quiet people, loud people, silly people ... people what think they have a smart mouth (especially them actually, because — and Alfie has never claimed to be devoid of a monumental ego, right — but they are rarely as smart as he is. He’d almost go so far as to say never. But then there’s his mum, so there’s always an exception). All told, Alfie’s better with dogs. 

And yet, for all that, he keeps seeking out connections. Craves intimacy, that special spark that might make him rethink his frustrations. Have some more faith in the world and the people that fill it. He knows it’s fucking futile, that he’s panning for gold in a sea of silt, that the ‘truth’ he wants don’t exist because the world is full of shits and there’s no such thing as a true connection. 

Because truth is something we tell ourselves, innit? Over and over. Weaving together what we think we know until it makes perfect sense. Until we will whatever it is we think into being and fulfil our own fucking prophecies. So we can carry on in our own little lives with the same fears and delusions and prejudices we’ve always had because the world has shown us that they are true. Because we proved ‘em so. 

Yeah, maybe Alfie’s biggest frustration is himself.


	4. What's the first thing Tommy notices about a person?

Eye contact. The first thing Tommy notices is whether someone can hold his gaze. It’s a test, eh? He’s sharpened his cold, hard stare like a hunter might sharpen his knife and (at the risk of stretching the metaphor) you can cut through a lot of bullshit with a look in someone’s eyes. Those that can keep a straight face at the sharp end of a Thomas Shelby glare are few and far between, because Tommy never smiles. Never smirks or flinches or blinks unless he means to. People used to ask him how he did it but the truth is he doesn’t know. It isn’t difficult. It’s not something he’s ever had to train, it’s just there... an innate ability. And he knows it unseats people, makes ‘em uncomfortable, which is absolutely the fucking point. ‘Cause if you haven’t got anything to hide then you should just stare right back, eh? Smile if you want to. Frown if you don’t like it, but don’t dart around the fucking room like a cat chasing a reflection ...don’t drop your eyes to the floor ... don’t look up and right as you try to figure out the answer to a question or concoct a palatable untruth. Because Tommy will see and know and pity you for it.


	5. What's the first thing Alfie notices about a person?

Their energy. He has a very instinctual reaction to someone’s overall presence. Whether they’re positive or negative, put energy into a space or suck it out. Which might all sound a bit wanky but is, in actual fact, very simple. Dogs do it all the time, make snap judgements based on a person’s overall vibe. And if it’s good enough for dogs, it’s good enough for Alfie.

It’s not foolproof, right. If it were foolproof then he’d have kicked Chester Campbell into touch at that first fuckin’ meeting, wouldn’t he? But the thing is, he was so distracted by Tommy’s energy (the sheer force of will with which he was repressing it more than anything) that he missed the signs with Cambell. But watching Tommy was like watching a fuckin’ pylon, weren’t it? He was rigid and rooted to the spot, but buzzing with so much power it threatened to arc out and fry him if he touched it wrong). So yeah. Energy. And even dogs get that wrong sometimes.


	6. What is the greatest extravagance Tommy allows himself?

Everything's an extravagance when you grew up on a hundred year old slum estate. And he indulges now in many things. Nice clothes, of course: tailored suits and cashmere socks and bamboo woven sportswear. He drives a nice car. Eats in good restaurants. But the one thing he really notices, in the wintertime at least, is warmth. These days he puts the heating on. Turns the thermostat up high. Wanders round barefoot on the under-heated floors and makes the house so hot he only needs to wear a t-shirt.

Because he can.

Because now he doesn't have to go to bed cold or find coins for the electric meter or wear every jumper he owns at once just to keep out the draft. And it is an extravagance, he knows that, but it helps to ward off the cold that sometimes creeps up his back for no reason. That taps on his shoulder at night. At least now he knows it's all in his head, it must be, 'cause he turned the thermostat up, didn't he? And he can pay the fucking bill.


	7. Where does Tommy feel most at ease?

Well, the obvious answer would be at the stables; Tommy does love his horses. But the problem with the stables is that he has too much time to think. Too much free headspace to muse over the mistakes he's made in his life. The people he's let down. May for one (and given she stables Tommy's horses it's ten to one he'll see her when he visits). She's forgiven him, of course. Least she says she has. And she's had other men since.

The Garrison might be his first choice. Not that he gets back there often these days. But there's something about the accents, the familiarity, the smell of beer and beeswax and bodies stale from an honest day's work that feels like home. Like childhood. Like his life before ... everything since.


	8. Who is Tommy's closest friend?

Tommy's not really one for friends. He never had much need for them. Not with so many siblings. He's always been close to his brothers, and to Ada more than them. Although these past few years a distance has grown. Tommy can't really put his finger on it; a combination of things, most likely. There was Grace and the way he handled (didn't handle) it. Hitting the pills didn't help. And none of them like being told what to do but left to their own devices they inevitably fcuk up, so it's no wonder Tommy's controlling. And then Chester came along, and muscled in and somehow took the shine off being with his brothers. Now they rarely meet up; the last thing Chester wants at the end of a long week is Saturday night with the Shelbys.

Which leads him back round to Lizzie, who is always there for him one way or another, and May. Seems he's only close to people he's fucked which is no doubt unhealthy, but at least he can trust them. And that's what it comes down to for Tommy - his friends are the people he can trust and there just arent' too many of those.


	9. What is Alfie's worst habit?

Well the answer to that depends very much on who you ask.

1\. Alfie's earlier boyfriends would have said it was his endless sleeping around. (He overcame his internalised homophobia with his own version of exposure therapy -- fucking and being fucked as often and creatively as possible). He took far too many risks and slept with far too many men, but he learnt a hell of a lot from each and every one. From the boys and the daddies and the pups and the kinksters. He learnt how to give and take pleasure and pain and which parts turned him on and how to turn a physical act into something close to spiritual. He was a total and utter shit to a string of boyfriends in the process.

2\. His mum would say his worst habit is his tendency to put others' needs before his own. She says he has a fear he won't be needed unless he's helping. (She doesn't know a lot about his early adventures in sex).

3\. Anyone who works for him would say it's his filthy temper. They work in a fuckin' kitchen right? So nothing's rocket science. If Alfie asks for even-sized slices that's what he expects to see. And if some slovenly wannabe-chef shows him a butchered onion they're gonna fuckin' hear about it. The whole kitchen's gonna hear about it. The whole fuckin street for all Alfie cares. Until them slices are right.

4\. Alfie himself would say his worst habit is eating too many crisps. The posh type, kettle-chips an' what-not; the ones that have been triple fried in sunflower oil until they're as transluscent as church windows; the type that leave a residue on his tongue and oil marks on his clothes ('cause he ain't getting off the sofa at 10 pm to fetch a fuckin' napkin. Not when he's wearing a perfectly good t-shirt).


	10. What is Aflie's biggest secret?

The thing with secrets, right, is they're a weakness, a way for people to get one over on you. Alfie spent his childhood hiding secrets at every turn. He hid how poor he was, his Jewishness, his mum's strange slavic accent (she spoke with the throaty vowels and stress patterns of a recent Siberian immigrant, despite the fact she had never, to Alfie's knowledge, stepped a foot outside North London. He blamed his grandparents).

In class Alfie hid how clever he was, in the playground he hid his physical weakness. And everywhere he went he hid the fact that he liked boys. It came out anyway of course, as he always knew it would. And then he kept the shame he felt an even bigger secret. He lifted weights and grew a beard and took up with the toughest guys he could find on the estate. He laughed too loud and swore too much and played his part as one of the lads. One of the thugs. One of the two-bit wannabe gangster-boys. Until he landed up in gaol.

When he got out for the second time he figured he'd have better luck as himself. Living life in the open. No more fuckin' secrets. What you don't hide can't be dug up and thrown against you, can't be used to manipulate or retaliate or incriminate.

So now Alfie lives in the open. He's a sex worker. An ex-con. A short-tempered bastard with no time for tossers. Anyone can find out any of those things without doing too much digging. And Alfie's fine with that. He doesn't care who knows. With the exception, perhaps, of his mum. But he's pretty sure even she has a good idea of how he spends his Friday nights. She don't ask and he don't share. "There are parts of your life that I don't question, darling; it would only cause a row." And that's how it should be. There are things a son don't ask his mother either.

So none of the big things in Alfie's life are secret; it's the smaller things he hides. Like how he likes to sleep with the radio on, and cries at old black and white films and sometimes, at 4am, he thinks he'd have made a pretty good dad. A pretty good husband. In another life, perhaps.


	11. Tommy topping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to this ask:- "If Tommy wanted to dom for a few scenes, would Alfie sub or encourage him to find a willing female?"

Alfie would definitely be willing to sub for Tommy — he’s not a switch, but he is of the opinion that you shouldn’t do anything to anyone that you wouldn’t try yourself. The question, really, is whether Tommy’s up to the task! 

So Tommy wants to spank Alfie? Edge him? Fuck him? Fine. Thing is, Tommy would struggle to genuinely hurt Alfie. He’d spank him, but Alfie wouldn’t react at all, would act as if some toddler was whacking him rather than a full grown, steely eyed little gangster. He’d be encouraging, mind,

“Come on Sweetie, put your back into it!” which would have the effect of disconcerting Tommy (even though he’s fully aware of what Alfie’s doing). In the end Tommy would feel a bit stupid and Alfie would be ready, listening for the little huffs of frustration that give him an opening to turn the tables, flip Tommy over and put him in his place.

“P’raps you’ve forgotten how it’s done, love. Is that it?” he’d say, positioning Tommy over his knees. “Here, let me remind you...”

*

If there were any situation in which Alfie would be willing to encourage a woman into the bedroom, it wouldn’t be to sub for Tommy, it would be as a fellow Dom. He’d rather like to sit back and watch Tommy squirm under some dainty woman’s hands — the petite ones are the most vicious, they always cane the hardest, like they have something to prove. (Rumour has it May Carlton has a lead-weighted strap-on, in addition to the stable-full of whips. She could probably find a nice sturdy bit for Tommy to bite down on whilst she went at him too. Now THAT Alfie would like to see...) 


	12. Tommy's oral fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to this ask:- "Love your writing! I was rereading T/A first time and Tommy sucking his thumb was (really!) gold! Think he has an oral fixation?"

Yes Tommy absolutely has an oral fixation. I mean he always has something in his mouth, whiskey or cigarettes. It's a comfort thing. Not that he'd ever admit it (or even realise it, probably).

His mother breastfed him for far longer than the other kids. Because he wouldn't eat much in the way of solid food and he was small anyway and she kept telling herself it was 'just one more week,' over and over again. Until Tommy was over two years old and still sneaking inside his mother's blouse of an evening and Arthur senior put his foot down.

He's always liked kissing more than he'd be happy to admit. At least, if it's with the right person. And once he's in bed, and loosened-up enough, he's happy to suck other things too. Thumbs. Fingers. The soft fold of flesh between Alfie's chest and his armpit. Even the inside of his own elbow (when he's trying to keep quiet).

He's always been a bit self-conscious when it comes to sucking cock though. But trust Alfie Solomons to find a way around that. Didn't take him too long to figure out that something in Tommy's mouth would calm him down, even in the heat of the moment, so he found a way to use that instinct. By lying on his side in bed and pushing Tommy under the covers, until they were facing each other, Tommy's nose pressed to Alfie's groin. Tommy'll lie like that and suck Alfie off for an age. (Suckle him off, more like, but Alfie ain't one to complain).

Perhaps because it's comfortable and warm and reminds Tommy of being hidden away in the cocoon of his mother's cardigans; a secret, shameful pleasure -- sweating skin against sweating skin -- to be enjoyed out of sight, in the dark. The analogy is no doubt obscenely twisted. But when he finally comes up for air (or Alfie drags off the covers) Tommy's always damp-cheeked and sleepy, his lashes lowered. And Alfie, for one, will be eternally grateful to the late Mrs Shelby for whatever cliche of a fixation she unwittingly encouraged.


	13. Alfie edging and verbally teasing Tommy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to this Anonymous ask:  
> I LOVE YOUR WRITING. For your ask fics, can you maybe share your thoughts on Alife edging and verbally teasing Tommy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this could be seen as a slight spoiler for the main Mistakes AU. Perhaps. I mean I haven't finished writing that yet, so who knows...?

When you’ve found the right words to tease Tommy, he has a major and obvious tell: he curls in on himself. It’s almost out of character, the way he pulls his knees up and turns away. Not immediately of course, it seems to work in increments. He’ll absorb a fair few comments without any sort of physical reaction at all, because that’s what he’s trained ‘imself to do — let words slide off his skin like butter off a hot knife. Alfie can pepper whatever he’s saying with a string of _treacles_ and _sweethearts_ and _darlings_ and get no reaction at all beyond a slight pursing of the lips or the barest glimmer in his eyes.

But Alfie’s only warming-up, and that glimmer? S’probably the light.

The first comment that actually cuts through is always a little victory: the muscles in Tommy’s stomach’ll twitch. It’s a tiny, insignificant movement that belies a greater need and if Alfie keeps it up, then sooner or later Tommy’s knees will come up too — just a slight jerk towards his chest before he catches himself and puts his feet back down on the bed (or floor, or table).

But Alfie don’t stop there, of course, he keeps going with whatever’s working, until Tommy eventually growls and pulls his knees up high. No pretence any more, just a full-on defensive reaction, like the way anyone else’d respond to a kick to the stomach or a punch to the kidney. Except no one’s punching or kicking here, quite the opposite in fact. Alfie’s hands are moving as gently as if Tommy were a prized creature, a mink perhaps, covered in the softest most delicate fur, to be stroked and savoured.

Come to think of it Tommy is a lot like a mink: exotic, beautiful, _hates_ being handled. Problem is, if Alfie’s thinking this he’s highly likely _saying_ it too; telling Tommy how soft he feels, how delicately his pulse thuds against Alfie’s buried fingers. There’s a risk involved in petting such a wild, unpredictable creature, but Alfie don’t care if he gets bitten, _you’re worth every tooth-mark, love_. And if his hands are working as well as his words, sliding across Tommy’s torso and pulling between his legs, then before long Tommy’ll be doubled over, curled up on his side, head tucked down towards his chest, arms wrapped over his knees. Anyone else might take the hint, might leave the poor lad alone, but Alfie knows that it’s just a reaction learnt over many years. Tommy’s way of keeping out the slurs: the _pikeys_ , the _gypsies_ , the _scum_. But inside the gates of Tommy’s arms is a little box he protects. The same box everyone buries deep that tells them who they are. What they’re worth. Alfie’d wager there ain’t much left in Tommy’s, not since Campbell at least, so it’s no surprise that he guards what’s left like a tiger guards its kill.

And it takes a long time, right, for Tommy to figure out Alfie ain’t trying to take anything _out_ , he’s trying to put back _in_. He’ll crawl over Tommy’s curled up form and talk until he’s hoarse, kiss the bars of his ribs and torment with clever fingers until Tommy’s so exhausted his hold on himself relents. His limbs gradually fall away and he loosens enough that Alfie can tilt him onto his back with the lightest touch to his shoulder. And there he’ll lie, resigned to what might come next.

_What might come next_ might last for hours, depending on Alfie’s mood. He might lick ... slap ... squeeze ... fuck ... stop ... suck ... stroke. He might whisper truths and kindnesses through the keyholes of Tommy’s ears. Might tell him he’s fucking beautiful and such a good little slut. Might spend himself on Tommy’s chest and deny him his own release and start the whole process over again ... and again ... and again ... just to watch Tommy tremble on the verge of exhaustion, sweat-soaked and utterly desperate. Looking to Alfie to save ‘im. Finally, right before the sun comes up, he’ll let Tommy choose how to come — in Alfie’s hand or mouth or arse or stuffed with an oversized toy. All of which are excellent options, Alfie’d be hard-pushed to choose. But it’s harder yet for Tommy who, by now, is beside himself; no longer in his own head. Which was kind of the point, Alfie supposes, not that he lets Tommy off the hook with anything so timid as _fuck me, Alfie_.

Nah, he makes Tommy spell it out, reels his head back onto his body as he extracts every last sordid detail. Only then, when he hears the click — see’s Tommy’s mind back behind his eyes — does he deliver whatever’s been asked for. Does he place a palm over Tommy’s mouth and fuck him hard and fast. Till it hurts. Till those blue eyes gloss up and he arches his back and squeals in pain as he comes. As Alfie comes.

And when Tommy curls up afterwards, tightens back into his ball, then Alfie’ll curl around his spine and hold his knees up for him. Stroke his hair. Kiss his neck. He don't dare call it a hug just yet, he's just holding the good stuff in.


	14. Hate-sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to this ask:-
> 
> Hey, I miss your writing! I don't know if you're taking asks but hate-sex? Argument-sex? Make-up sex?
> 
> I guess this is a bit of all three. (Warning for rough).

It's not that Tommy means to be selfish, Alfie's pretty sure of that, it's just that selfishness comes to him naturally. It's no doubt a byproduct of the life he's led, a combination of ruthless self-sufficiency and entrenched self-preservation that manifests in random and infuriating ways. He spends so much time wandering around in his own labyrinth of a head that 'e don't always seem to realise where 'e is or how 'e got there. How 'is food got onto the plate in front of 'im for that matter. Which is kind of a case in point.

Alfie scrapes the remnants of an individual _salmon encroute_ into the kitchen bin, dislodging the perfectly-cooked pastry that's now curling upwards, like the ribs of a rotting cadaver, protecting what's left of the half- pecked-out pinkness inside. He can't help being stung that Tommy couldn't even be bothered to finish it. It's as if the cocky little bastard thinks perfectly-prepared dinners-for-one just appear in the oven of their own accord. As if the cupboards are self-replenishing — automatically restocking his favourite whisky and tea (and semi-skimmed milk, 'cause _skimmed tastes like dishwater_ and _full-fat's too creamy_ ) every time supplies run low.

But communication is key in any relationship, innit? So rather than run his mouth off half-cocked, Alfie decides to conduct an experiment. See how long it takes Tommy to communicate his _appreciation_ for all the things Alfie does. 

The answer, it turns out, is a fucking long time — longer than Alfie's patience will last at any rate. When he walks in for the fifth night in a row to find the meal he prepared half-eaten, dirty dishes next to the sink, and Tommy so enthralled by his laptop he barely nods, "hello," well ... Alfie has had enough. He schools himself though. Clenches his fists and forces his voice to take on a deceptively breezy tone.

"You eaten, treacle?" he enquires.

"Yeah," Tommy answers with a quick glance up. The living room's in near total-darkness, not a single lamp switched on, which means Tommy's lit only by the bluish glare of whatever's on 'is screen. It's not a flattering light. Makes 'im look tired — haggard actually — all sharp angles and purple shadows. Then again, it _is_ one o'clock in the morning. (It'd have to be some quality porn to have Alfie absorbed at this hour, but the sad reality is that it's far more likely spreadsheets.)

"What did you 'ave?" Alfie asks.

"Eh?"

"To _eat_."

Tommy sighs. "Er ... that thing you left in the oven." He glances up again, irritably this time.

"Hmmm," Alfie says. "Bouillabaisse."

"What?"

" _Bouillabaisse_. French fish stew."

"Yeah, it was fish." Tommy's typing something now, bashing the keys impatiently — workaholic little prick.

Alfie looks round the room. There's a bottle of whisky on the coffee table and a glass (no sign of a coaster). A sea of dry bread crumbs flecks the sofa — the accompaniment to tonight's lovingly prepared meal. The man himself sits cross-legged, bare feet tucked up into the backs of his knees, socks discarded amongst the pale shreds of sourdough like twisted creatures in a gloomy velvet sea. He doesn't acknowledge Alfie's scrutiny; doesn't even seem to notice.

Alfie would like to start an argument right here, right now, to ask Tommy what his last slave died of and who the _fuck_ he thinks he is. Instead he finds himself gritting his teeth and swiping at crumbs with brusque, rigid movements. He pairs Tommy's socks and collects up the discarded innards of this morning's Financial Times, seething quietly all the while. He's worked damn hard tonight, serving one hundred and forty covers in two sittings, (one hundred and forty three if you count Prince Tommy's dinner. That thought irks him more than it should). He needs a shower more than a row, but he can't keep himself from needling.

"Nice was it?" he asks, crumpling the newspaper into the fire-bucket.

"What?"

"Your dinner."

Tommy huffs and finally looks up, dropping his hands from the keyboard to rest either side of his legs. "Is there a problem, Alfie?" he says.

"Problem?" Alfie says, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "No, nah. No problem. Just wondered if it was nice? Ya know, the _bouillabaisse_?"

"Yes. It was nice," Tommy says, digging thick fingers into his eye sockets as if the bloodshot orbs are the source of his irritation. "I have to send this to Pol in the next fifteen minutes or she'll fucking skin me tomorrow. Alright?"

"S'not Pol makes all your dinners," Alfie mutters under his breath.

"What?"

"I said _Pernot_. Makes all the difference."

"Right."

"To a good _bouillabasisse_."

"Fuck's sake..." Tommy mutters, (whether at the screen or his boyfriend is really not clear, but Alfie chooses to take it personally).

"I'm going up for a shower."

"Fine. I'll be up when this is done."

Alfie stands under the hot water and lets his anger simmer, stirs it just enough to intensify the flavours. He pours over the paltry slights, the daily irritations and provocations that come with sharing a home. And alright, each annoyance on its own might not sour the dish, but combined they begin to thicken, to form an unpleasant skin. Alfie's careful not to let his anger boil, he don't want to turn it bitter, but by the time he walks into the bedroom it's all 'e can fuckin' taste.

Tommy is already in bed, one hand tucked behind his head as he reads a document of some kind, several creamy pages stapled together in the corner. He tuts and turns the page, without looking over to Alfie. And p'raps it's that what does it, finally tears Alfie's patience. He strides to the bed and rips the papers clean out of Tommy's hand, hurling them across the floor. 

"What the fuck?" Tommy says. He looks shocked, and slightly bewildered. There's anger there, but dulled by a visible weariness.

Alfie ain't in the mood for concessions; he climbs onto the bed, boxing Tommy in on all fours.

"That was fucking rude," Tommy says, his mouth a mean little line.

"Rude?" Alfie says. "Me?" He laughs so unexpectedly it comes out as more of a bark. "You're fuckin' unbelievable, mate."

Tommy's face hardens in that way that suggests he's about to say something _deeply_ unwise. Alfie leans down to kiss him, hard, before he has the chance. There's a startled sound and a clashing of teeth as Tommy tries to shut him out, but one strategically-placed hand around his throat and he opens for Alfie's tongue.

Alfie licks into him, probes the inside of his mouth, overwhelmed with a desire to retake what Tommy's withheld: his attention. His full, undivided _attention_ ... by god, he's gonna give it now. Tommy's defences start to weaken — his tongue softens, his mouth falls wide — when he lets out a whorish little moan, Alfie pulls away. He's hard with lovingly-nurtured anger and ready to put it to use.

"Over," he says, nudging Tommy's hip with a knee.

Tommy rolls reluctantly, looking rather bewildered. Alfie reaches into the bedside drawer and slicks himself one-handed, cursing as the lube falls noisily onto the floor. Don't matter, he's done enough.

"Got something to say to me, Tommy?" he asks, fumbling in his haste. 

Tommy doesn't answer. It's a source of unending wonder how he can look so fucking truculent when he's splayed face-down on the bed.

"No?" Alfie prompts. "You sure about that, sweet'eart?"

Tommy stays defiantly mute, though he can be in no doubt as to where this is heading. Alfie wraps an arm beneath him and slams in with a single thrust. The sound of breath being knocked out of Tommy shocks the air in the room. He hauls Tommy closer still, squeezing his slender waist as if emptying a soda-bottle of air. His hips and forearm are opposing forces, jaws clamping down on a pelvis — he lets Tommy feel the bite of it, until a cry of anguish fills the air.

The sound sends fire licking through Alfie.

He waits.

He breathes slowly through the seconds of charged stillness as Tommy fights to yield. Ten seconds turn into fifteen ... twenty ... followed by a convulsion — one rigid spasm that travels the length of Tommy's body and ends with a shuddering groan.

The precious sound of acceptance.

Only then does Alfie ease back, sliding out an inch or two purely for the pleasure of pressing back in and hearing that cry again.

"Thank me," he says, voice low as he presses a kiss into Tommy's neck. 

Tommy groans and tips his head but doesn't form the words.

"Thank me," Alfie repeats with a thrust. "I want to hear you say it." 

Tommy buries his face in the sheets and doesn't make a sound.

"Alright, if that's how you want to play it." Alfie heaves himself upwards, and presses his weight into Tommy's shoulder-blades. "You will thank me," he promises, "if I 'ave to fuck you into next week."

Maybe that's what Tommy wants, Alfie certainly hopes so 'cause 'e ain't givin' any more chances. He builds up the pace with increasing vigour, whilst Tommy just lies there and takes it.

And takes it.

And _takes_ it.

The sheets come untucked, the pillows bank up against the headboard, and Alfie fills with dark delight when Tommy's silence breaks, when little growls and mewls escape; the sounds of a wounded animal. Perhaps he's expecting sympathy ... poor deluded boy. Alfie slows his hips and lowers himself once more, wrapping his arms beneath Tommy's armpits and locking hands in front of his chest. The position puts his mouth against Tommy's ear. 

"If you ain't gonna say it, darlin', then you'd better shut the fuck up." He pulls out achingly slowly, savouring the grip around his cock before slamming back in with a groan. The angle clearly changes _something_ because this time Tommy sounds desperate — a series of high-pitched sounds ripples out of him. 

"Say it," Alfie growls, repeating the exact same movement to even more delightful effect. He pulls out for a third time, about to fuck in again when Tommy whispers something that sounds awfully like compliance.

"What's that?" Alfie says, pausing to pull him out of the pillows by his hair.

"Thank you," Tommy says, his voice barely a whisper.

"Again," Alfie says as he drives back in, pulling hard on the black locks so that Tommy's neck is bared.

"Thank you," Tommy repeats. This time the response is a gasp, two gasps, but still Alfie isn't sated. 

"Again," he says, with another thrust.

"Thank you," Tommy replies; the struggle in his voice driving Alfie on like a racehorse under the whip.

"Again," he says, "again ... again."

"Thank you," Tommy murmurs, "thank, thank, th— urgh."

Alfie lets go of Tommy's hair and fucks him hard, cutting off each gasped response before it's fully formed. Soon it's like an echo that follows every thrust. "Thank—, thank—, th— you!" Tommy's fingers splay out like flags of surrender but Alfie ain't feeling merciful.

"Again," he growls. "Thank me again, thank me until you can't say it."

Tommy does, he says it over and over, until he's so battered by Alfie's desire that all he can do is gasp ... and moan ... and writhe. Until every pitiful, _"thank you,"_ is a breath forced into the mattress. Is a plea. Is a _please ... "please,_ Alfie ...fuck, god ... _please ..."_

***

Afterwards, Afie curls onto his side and basks in the faintly horrifying afterglow of his own cruelty. It takes a good few moments until he feels his pinkness subside. Tommy shuffles closer, ducks into the concave space between them and slides his arms around Alfie's belly. He holds on tight, in the way he only ever does after a particular type of sex. Alfie bends to kiss the top of his head, a single peck that's suffused, somehow, with more tenderness than an hour of tongued kisses.

"Thank you," Tommy whispers. 

Alfie strokes the back of his neck, where the hair is short, like the nap of velvet. He feels incongruously protective. "For the dinners or the sex?"

"For knowing what I need," Tommy mumbles into the meat of Alfie's chest. 

"Good job one of us knows what's good for you."

"You are."

"Hmm." 

Alfie only wishes he could be more certain of that.

**Author's Note:**

> And if you want to ask anything, let me know in the comments or on tumblr: mintjamsblog


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